Gossip and Rumors, Friendships and Truths
by Chivana Frost
Summary: Dragon Age 2, Post Ending. Life on the run can be pretty lonesome. Sometimes, all it takes is one simple act of kindness to open the doors of friendship in a starved heart. Hawke/OC, Implied Hawke/Fenris. My first ever fanfic!


Bioware owns all, bless their little hearts

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Barley crossed his hairy arms as he looked out among the throng, enormous muscles earned from years spent lifting meats on and off meat hooks preventing him from fully interlocking them across his broad chest, a careful eye constantly on the lookout for thieves. His stall wasn't the grandest, but it sold excellent smoked meats and meat-pies, if he did say so himself, and there was always a throng on Market Day ready to buy his wares.

He noticed the woman in the hooded cloak approaching and smiled to himself. As per their standing arrangement, he pulled out a large burlap sack and started filling it with her usual order: smoked hare, sausages, venison strips, smoked kippers, salted pork. Though he'd never seen her in the company of anyone, it was a lot of food for someone who looked so starved, and not for the first time, he wondered where it all went, or how such a slip of a thing was even capable of hefting the bag.

She was a quiet one, with barely a word to anyone when she made her way to town, which was infrequently. No one knew where she lived or where she came from, though the gossip of the town held quite a few wild theories. When she'd arrived at the seaside village for Market Day that first time, she'd drawn curious stares from the townsfolk, with the way she kept herself covered under a heavy hood that shadowed most of her face, even though the weather was warm, and the unusual walking stick she carried, which resembled a spear with a ball on the end. Suspicions towards strangers ran high since the destruction of Kirkwall's chantry. After a few thinly-disguised queries from nervous merchants, she'd shared only that her surname was Snow, and that she'd recently lost her husband to bandits.

When she'd first stopped at his stall, his curiosity had gotten the better of him, and he'd tried, rather obviously, to get a look at her, until an unexpected gust of wind had come and lifted back her hood just enough. She'd snatched it and drawn it back down low over her brow almost instantly, but not before he'd caught a glimpse of a worn face sporting a massive scar across the bridge of her nose, shadowed eyes aged by tragedy and pain, and he'd quickly turned away as she'd righted herself, ears burning as shame had filled him. It had been made obvious why she wore such a disguise, and he'd felt like an insensitive boor to have outed her so casually.

She'd not said a word, merely bent her head even further and paid him for her wares as she'd thanked him politely, bidding him a prosperous and happy day, and his shame had doubled at her lack of insult. On a whim, when she'd turned to leave, he'd stopped her with a touch to her arm, noticing how she'd stiffened before flinching away from the contact. Dropping his hand immediately, he'd scooped two fresh meat pasties from their cooling racks, quickly wrapped them in linen and handed them to her. "No charge." He'd said gruffly by way of apology. "Ye need to add some meat on those bones, Messere. Need the repeat business." Though he hadn't seen her face, he'd heard the small smile in her voice as she'd accepted the gift, murmuring her thanks. She'd come directly to his stall the next time she'd attended Market Day, and every time after that.

She was always polite but withdrawn. She wore her grief like a cloak, and the aura of pain that seemed to surround her was enough to keep most people from prying too deeply. He'd shared only a little of what he'd seen with some of his drinking buddies at the tavern that first night of their meeting, but it had been enough to spread the word. Despite their lingering distrust, the village folk were good souls for the most part. Everyone had lost someone, and as the world slid ever closer towards war, no one needed to be reminded of how quickly loss could strike. She'd earned sympathy and relative anonymity with a few words spoken in the presence of the right ears.

Barley was a man who paid his debts.

A few weeks after that first meeting, he'd nearly closed the stand after pulling his back out lifting a large steer to a hook. It had slipped instead of snagged, and he'd moved wrong in catching it, and had nearly crippled himself. Unable to suffer the financial loss from not opening on Market Day, he'd forced himself to work in agony serving his patrons.

Somehow, she'd come to his stall that day, though she'd been there just the Market Day before, and after a few discreet questions, she'd fumbled about in the satchel she carried with her, pulling out a small jar of liniment. She'd explained that her father had had a bad leg from an old injury, and that she'd made this liniment for him using an old family recipe. His pride had kept him from simply accepting the gift, but his pain had left him desperate, so he'd traded her two more meat pies, ready to try anything. It had worked amazingly well and he was good as new in just a couple of days. He'd worked out a bargain with her to keep him in supply, and he'd cut her a deal on his prices.

That had been early spring, and she had appeared every other month or so since, sometimes twice in the same month, presumably as her supplies needed replenishing or he needed more liniment . They shared small talk, chatting about inconsequentials and daily goings-on. Such idle chatter wasn't normally his thing, but he was always left feeling somehow refreshed for her visits. She was soft-spoken, rarely spoke of her past, and yet seemed interested in anything he had to say. He found himself sharing glimpses of dreams with her that he shared with no one else, but he never delved too deeply, and she never made him feel self-conscious about it. Perhaps it was because he knew she wasn't the type to idly gossip, or perhaps he'd just missed having someone to talk to about such things. Or perhaps it was because despite her obvious preference for privacy, he had the impression that she was starved for the companionship, and it made him feel a bit gallant to offer it.

Gossips still squawked, but he hushed them every time, remembering the way her face had told her story of loss.

~oOo~

Her order was ready by the time she reached his stand, and he greeted her, smiling widely. She returned his greeting courteously, her eyes reflecting light from within the deep hood and he thought he caught a flash of teeth, and not for the first time, wondered what she looked like when she smiled. They spent a few minutes exchanging pleasantries about the weather, the results of the final harvests and the approaching winter, which couples had had babies since she'd last stopped by, even bits of news about the war that he'd heard from sailors as they'd made port.

Eventually, it was time for her to go, and he felt a flash of disappointment as he usually did. He'd realized that he was growing sweet on the lady, but she still wore the black band of cloth around her left arm, the visible symbol of her loss, and knew she wasn't ready to be courted yet, even had he the coin to start a married life. So he slipped a couple of the meat pasties she was fond of into her bag instead, and as always, offered to have her order delivered. Even after all this time, he still didn't know where she stayed, though he knew she didn't live in the village.

Just as always, she politely declined and it still somehow surprised him with how deftly she was able to accept the heavy bag from him. Then she lowered an enormous satchel from her back, digging around in it. After a moment, she handed him a large crock of the ointment she made, along with a parchment. A quick glance told him it was the instructions for the liniment. When he raised his eyebrows in surprise at the quantity and the recipe, she told him that she was getting ready to sail that very morning, and wanted to keep him in stock for the winter, when reagents might be scarce.

Dismay filled him. He'd never had better medicine for his aches, her coin had always been good, and the fact that she had exceptional taste for smoked hare made her one of his favorite customers. But beyond that, their irregular meetings and friendly conversations were something that Barley had come to look forward to, and while they'd never met anywhere else but his stand, he'd come to consider himself her friend, and had entertained ideas of perhaps being more someday. For some reason, he hadn't predicted that she wouldn't stay, despite how many ships their port received.

"I'm going to miss you, Milady Snow." He said at last, face red from more than the fire of the smokers.

She took a shaky breath. "I…I shall miss you, too, Barley. Your company has been a bright spot in an otherwise dark and lonely year." Her voice trembled a bit, and he automatically wanted to soothe her.

But then she added cheekily, "But I believe I'll miss your meat pies most of all, Ser Butchersmith."

Startled by the unexpected humor and secretly flattered at the title, he barked out a quick laugh despite himself. "If you ever head back this way, Milady, I'll make a batch just for you." He hoped she read the invitation in his meaning.

She hesitated, and then laid her hand across his. He recognized it as no more than a friendly gesture, no romantic overtones at all, but it was still a welcome surprise and he felt his throat tighten at the effort it must have cost her. "Maker bless you and keep you, Serrah Barley." He patted the back of her hand gently, noting the chill in her skin before she pulled away.

He watched as she hefted the large satchel and meat bag over her small shoulders. Her back hunched under the weight, but she strode off determinedly towards the docks, her bladed walking stick in hand. He stared after her thoughtfully, but soon the press of business had him distracted again. He'd miss his mysterious lady, no doubt, and sent up a brief prayer heavenwards asking for safe travels on her behalf. He tried not to dwell on the fact that she hadn't promised to return.

It wasn't until almost two months later, long after the riot at the docks up the coast had ended, and the last of the subsequent responding Templars had departed, that Barley finally ran out of his last jar of liniment, and needed to open the large container she had left him. Back aching from another long day, he pried open the jar. Jaw dropping in shock, the lid fell from lifeless fingers while his heart stuttered to a near halt, then leaped in his chest.

"_Maker have mercy!_" he shouted.

The jar was filled with coin. Enough to open that inn he'd always dreamed of. Enough to start a family at last.

Tears in his eyes, he knelt and gave thanks to the Maker.

~oOo~

Barley was a gruff man, a hardworking man, and suffered no fools. He wasn't a very learned man, but he could read both basic Common and people enough to chat with just about anyone over just about anything, and was smart enough to know when a nose stuck too deeply in another's business could get it chopped off. And despite his disdain for rumors, he also wasn't blind, nor deaf.

Everyone knew she'd vanished over a year ago, her infamous friends along with her, despite the Chantry's best efforts to locate her. Though sightings had been claimed all across the breadth of Thedas, no one knew for sure where she'd disappeared to. Whether she leads the mage revolt currently or runs from it instead is anyone's guess, but the stories vary greatly. Most stories claim that the group has separated since that night in Kirkwall when the world changed. Some say that she left her comrades purposely, either to protect them, or because they no longer served her purpose. Some say she travels still with her elven lover. Others swear her lover has been separated from her, and is spending his days wandering the world searching for his lost witch. Barley himself has heard dozens of tales before and paid them no mind other than as entertainment over a pint.

However, he remembered one thing now, inconsequential, perhaps; in every story, along with the gigantic sword he wielded and the strange markings on his skin, one feature that had marked the elf was his hair – such a young man to have hair as white as snow. And although he hadn't ever officially met the woman, he knew exactly how much she liked smoked hare and meat pies. He imagined a mabari might like them even more.

He found that despite the state of the world, he couldn't judge her by the rumors he'd heard but had no firsthand knowledge of himself. While he knew she'd lied to him about her past, he believed she'd been honest in her friendship. And he knew that whether her man was dead to her in body or in circumstance, her grief was the same. He found himself hoping they would be together again, in this life or the next.

"Maker bless and keep _you_, Champion."


End file.
